Finding Eden
by hyper13
Summary: Assassins, Templars, a quest for power, forbidden love, and two people just trying to do the right thing; the story of how Martha and Thomas Wayne met and fell and love and how Bruce came to be so gifted.
1. Meeting

**a/n: I don't normally do crossovers but my wife asked me to write this, so here I am. The first 3 chapters are already written, so if there's interest, I'll keep posting****. It's short, but if anyone is interested in reading the rest, I'll work on longer chapters. Mainly an introduction. Happy reading.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Assassin's Creed or their characters. I _do_, however, own some characters that will come up in later chapters. So, I have something, I guess.**

* * *

Martha sat at the windowsill, slender fingers drumming as she stared out the window.

Brown eyes stared intently at the building across the street, giving her the appearance of being wrapped up in thought. She'd been sitting at this window for over an hour, and her butt was starting to hurt. That was something they never really addressed in training-no one talked about how boring a stakeout was, and no one talked about how stiff and sore your joints and muscles became when sitting still for so long.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as a stranger approached. He watched her for a moment, but her gaze remained focused out the window until he spoke. "You know," she caught an amused tone and she met his eyes in the reflection, "all the art is inside the museum. In fact, you're surrounded by art in here."

Her eyes shifted back to the window, shrugging in response to the stranger. "Yet you stand there, staring at me," she murmured back. "I can assure you that I am not a part of the museum displays." There was a pause, but she knew he hadn't moved, and then he laughed, seeming surprised at her response.

"I was more pointing out your distracted state. There are many interesting, historical, and beautiful things inside the museum yet you sit here, staring out the window."

She rolled her eyes at her reflection. "That is certainly my concern, not yours." Outside, across the street, the door of the warehouse opened, and Martha had to school her expression to keep her face impassive. A man stepped out into the street, wearing a bright yellow raincoat; he crossed the street in the museum's direction and headed left. "Often we're too focused on what's in the past and what is static, that we miss the interesting and beautiful things happening around us; we miss history being made."

The man stepped closer, leaning to look out her window just as Martha stood. He smelled like coffee. "Is history being made out in the street, then?" He asked with some humor.

She started gathering up her belongings, shoving her journal back into the leather bag that was sitting on the floor by her feet. "Who knows? But if someone isn't looking, we could miss it happening." The man straightened seeing that she was intent on leaving.

The stranger blinked at her sudden desire to leave. "No need to leave on my account." His pleading tone made her pause, smiling up at him. Her eyes met his, briefly, before he continued, "You were watching history from this window first; I should be the one leaving."

Martha shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. "Not to worry. I am not leaving because of you." She turned to go, pausing again when she felt a hand on her wrist. His grip was light, and not at all forceful. Martha had outgrown the need to immediately attack anyone touching her automatically, so she merely raised an expectant brow at him and hoped he wouldn't feel the tip of her blade hiding beneath her sleeves.

"Sorry," he said, glancing down where he was holding her wrist. He didn't let go, though. "Can I get your name?"

"I doubt that is needed. I do not imagine we will see one another again." There was a flicker of something on his face, but she didn't have time to process the information, gently tugging on her hand to leave. She needed to hurry, or she'd lose her query; she'd already wasted too much time getting out of the museum. The grip on her wrist tightened, and she planted her feet firm; she was not opposed to using force to break free, regardless of whether it would create a scene.

"First name?" He pressed, offering what she supposed he imagined to be a charming smile. She huffed and rolled her eyes, but couldn't resist smiling back.

"Martha," she replied, and then tugged her hand free, quickly. Without glancing back, the young assassin hurried out the front doors of the museum. She glanced up and down the street trying to spot the man she'd seen exiting the warehouse.

Turning, Martha headed right, moving through the light crowd of people to follow his footsteps. After a few feet, she caught sight of the flash of yellow from his raincoat and let out a breath. She didn't rush to catch up to him, but she did pick up the pace to stay close enough that she could keep him in her line of sight. When the yellow-clad man turned into an apartment building, Martha picked up the pace, catching the door just as it was about to close. She heard the elevator doors close just as she stepped inside the building.

The lobby was clean, well maintained, but nothing fancy. The carpet dulled the sound of Martha's footsteps, but she needn't have worried. The woman at the front desk looked bored, flipping through a magazine. The receptionist paid Martha no attention as she turned to the stairwell, dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The elevator was slow moving and didn't stop until the third floor. When she reached the top of the landing, she heard the ding of the elevator and the doors sliding open. When she cracked open the door of the stairwell, the man in the yellow jacket was facing away from her, heading down the hallway.

Martha paused, attempting to calm her racing heart with a deep breath, yanked her hood up to obscure her face, and then stepped into the hallway. She kept her distance until he reached his door. As he started unlocking the door, Martha's step quickened, and once more she caught the door before it closed.

The assassin slipped through the door where she was faced with the man's back as he removed his jacket. Strapped to each forearm, Martha had thick knives in leather sheaths. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she slid one free now and stepped up behind the man. In one fluid motion, Martha had the point of the blade pressed to his neck. "Hands up," she instructed. The man obeyed immediately, putting both of his hands up, fingers splayed.

Taking half a step back, Martha kept the metal pressed against his skin. "Now, turn around." Again, he obeyed, and she stood face to face with the stranger. He looked at her with wide, solemn eyes, frightened but unsurprised, and she was struck by how young he looked.

"I had a feeling this would happen eventually," he sighed.

"Edward Monger?" She verified, and he nodded his confirmation.

"You can pat me down, but you'll find I have no weapons. Would you mind lowering yours?" Edward asked. She hesitated. It wouldn't be smart to show any weakness or potential mercy. He was thin, the arms he held up were scrawny; he didn't look the type to be able to stick a blade through another person. Martha lessened the pressure on his neck, only slightly. If it were true that he'd been suspecting someone would come for him, he'd be foolish not to have a weapon, and while she didn't know a whole lot about Edward, she knew that he was not foolish.

Plus, you should never underestimate your opponent. Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in the apartment. It was dirty, sparsely furnished, and dusty; most likely it was a safe house.

"Sit." She instructed, inclining her head in the direction of the coffee table to her right. His eyes widened in surprise, and Martha let out a breath. It would do no good to tell him she wasn't here to murder him. If he was afraid, the assassin hoped he might cooperate. After a beat, he sat, and she pulled up a chair in front of him. "The Sword of Eden," she started and watched as the surprised look faded and he smiled, comprehension dawning on him.

The tension eased from his shoulders as Edward smiled at her. Martha shifted in her seat, uneasy with how relaxed he had become. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."


	2. One Step Closer

"Nice to meet you, Martha," Thomas Wayne called. He stood staring after the girl who took off, much like Cinderella except without the glass slipper left behind to find her again.

It was a dumb simile, but the thought had already occurred, and he couldn't take it back now. Thomas chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

At least he'd managed to get her first name, although Martha wasn't exactly unique. Thomas, however, was hopeful that he would run into her again. Gotham wasn't a small city by any means, but stranger things had happened. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to see her again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she'd hardly given him a second glance, too enthralled with what was happening outside. Perhaps it had been the pleasant surprise of her quick wit. Before he could ponder on the mysterious Martha any longer, his father emerged from the room where he'd been speaking with the museum curator. His heavy hand fell on Thomas' shoulder and the pair headed for the door. "Did you find what you needed?" The teen looked up at his father who answered with a slight nod. Thomas' heart sped up at the gesture.

They were one step closer to discovering all the pieces of Eden. Granted, the Brotherhood still had the Shroud and a few other parts, but they had a good idea of where they were being held and with the sword in their possession.

He waited until they were both seated in the car before Thomas broached the subject again. "So, does he know where the sword of Eden is?" Just from the look on his father's face, Thomas knew that the trip had not been entirely successful.

Gene Wayne was not a particularly expressive man, but in the presence of his son, he could not help letting the stoic mask fall. His disappointment at not being as close to the Sword of Eden as he had hoped frustrated him, and it showed.

Thomas listened as his father let him in on the conversation that had occurred in the curator's office. He had confirmed the existence of the Sword of Eden; that wasn't information they needed, but it helped to have. "They thought they had found where it was originally hidden, but..." Gene trailed off, shaking his head. "When they finally managed to get in, the sword was gone."

Both men let out frustrated breaths. Thomas' gaze drifted out the window as they drove through the streets. It felt like for every step forward they took two back when it came to this particular piece of Eden. "He does believe it's in Gotham now," Gene continued, "which is how he ended up here, and he thinks there may be another Piece of Eden."

The news pulled Thomas up short. There was _another_ piece? There were the shrouds, the apples, the Spear of Leonidas, the Sword of Eden, the Staves, Koh-i-Noor, the Trident, and the precursor box. What else could Isu have left behind? His father grinned, glancing over at Thomas. "You look excited."

"I'm intrigued."

Gene nodded in agreement. "As am I. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what the object is, yet, just that there is another piece. He is fairly certain the Brotherhood doesn't know of its existence."

The trip wasn't a complete waste, then, and Thomas said as much with Gene nodding in agreement. If they were ahead of the Brotherhood on a new artifact, then they could probably get their hands on it before the Assassins even know it exists, keeping it a complete secret from their adversaries. "So, do we focus on finding that, then?"

"We split our efforts. Regardless, we still need to find the Sword of Eden before they do."

* * *

The morning had been spent assisting his father in their quest for the sword (and a short attempt at flirting), so when Thomas and Gene returned home, they were shoved in the direction of the bathroom by Candace Wayne. "Showers, both of you." She instructed, sternly. "You reek of the city and guests will be arriving shortly."

Thomas grumbled in reply, while Gene paused to kiss his wife hello. "Dear," he started but was quickly interrupted by Candace shaking her head.

"No, there will be no more Templar business tonight. You can tell me all about it tomorrow. You're already late." She shooed them both again. "I've already laid your clothes on your beds," she called after them as they headed for their respective bathrooms.

An hour later and Thomas had bathed and dressed to his mother's satisfaction. Almost. "I just wish you would do something about your hair," she sighed, trying to brush it down flat with her hands. His hair had already started to dry and refused to obey.

"Mom," he ducked out from under her, reaching for a cheese cube. She swatted his hand away, and Thomas frowned.

"Those are for the guests."

The Wayne family came from money. His mother's side as well came from money. Candace had nothing to do with the Templars until she met her husband, but she quickly became involved as an active and useful member of the organization. However, she was not entrenched in the ideals the way that Gene was. She insisted that the family, her son especially, appear in society... which is how they often end up attending and hosting charities, parties, fundraisers, and other high society events. Supposedly it helps them with blending in.

"Mom, I need to eat, too," he complained.

"After the guests arrive."

They were about three hours into the party when Thomas saw her, the girl from the museum: Martha. She had arrived with a couple who looked to be around the same age as his parents. He found his mother, leaning in to speak with her. "Who are they?"

Candace glanced up, following his eyes. They landed on the couple, and she brightened. "Elizabeth and Gregory Kane." She didn't need to explain any further.

It was rumored, sometimes in jest, that the Kane family owns the half of Gotham that the Wayne's don't. While neither family _actually_ owns half of Gotham, both do own quite a bit of property, and both are big names in the city. "Ooh!" Candace continued, "They brought their daughter, Martha." She separated herself from her son, heading that direction to greet the new arrivals

Thomas waited until his mother had finished greeting them and Martha had separated herself from her parents. He lost her, but only for a second and when he found her, she was once again perched by a window. She didn't see him, so he took a moment to appreciate her form. Martha had shoulder length, dark and wavy hair. Earlier this afternoon it had been pulled back, but now it was down, framing her face. She was wearing a deep green long-sleeved dress that fell to her ankles, and though she had given up her coat at the door, she still wore a thin, silver scarf around her neck.

"We have got to stop meeting like this," he joked, grimacing once the statement had slipped past his lips. He was usually better at this.

She turned to him, one brow raised in question. If she were surprised to see him here, she didn't show it. "Are you following me now?" Her lips quirked upward, and he found himself responding in kind.

"I was going to ask you the same question." He rather liked the way her brows knitted together and her nose scrunched up in confusion. "After all, you're the one in my house." Understanding dawned on her, her face smoothing out as it did.

"You are Thomas Wayne."

"And you're Martha Kane." He could practically see her recalling their earlier encounter, remembering that she never shared that last bit with him. Then, she smiled.

Martha wasn't particularly stunning; that's not to say that she was unattractive, but she didn't stand out. At the museum, he'd been drawn to the intense, focused expression on her face as she stared, not at any of the exhibits, but out the window. Speaking with her, he'd been amused by her wit. However, looking at her sitting by the window, her lips turned up in a slightly crooked smile and the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement, Thomas found her to be striking. "So, you are following me."

Thomas returned her look with a grin and a shrug.


	3. More Questions and a Party

Martha hurried from Monger's apartment building her cowl pulled to cover her face. She knew he hadn't gotten a good look at her face, but it didn't hurt to put distance between herself and the apartment.

Also, she was late.

That was the first thing her father said to her when she walked through the door. "I know," she sighed, pulling back the hood. Her dad was looking at her over the top of his newspaper. Gregory Kane was already dressed in a smart charcoal suit, his tie hanging loose.

"Was your outing successful?" He questioned as his gaze shifted back to the paper.

Martha thought back to her conversation with Edward Monger. "Extremely." She looked a little smug about it, too, but she _had_ completed the task without any assistance. She considered it an accomplishment.

"Good," Gregory said, turning the page. "Lance was watching."

That information surprised her, and she dropped the smug expression, thinking back to everything she'd done that afternoon. Would there be anything for Lance to complain about? She opened her mouth to reply but was quickly interrupted by the arrival of their housekeeper, Miss Gwen. The now-elderly woman had been in the employ of the Kanes since before Martha was born, and both Kane children considered her to be a member of the family. "You're late," Miss Gwen snapped at Martha, obviously frustrated that Martha hadn't moved to get ready the second she walked through the door.

She started ushering the young woman to the stairs, and Martha obliged without complaint. "Fashionably late?"

"Don't get cheeky with me, missy," Miss Gwen replied quickly, but she was smiling as she followed Martha up the stairs. On the landing, she ushered the young woman toward the bathroom where they ran into Martha's mother. Miss Gwen caught the matron's expression and hurried around the pair to get the bath started.

Elizabeth, too, was dressed for the evening in a pale pink formal gown, her dark hair piled atop her head and neatly pinned. "Martha," Elizabeth frowned, fiddling with the clasp of her pearl necklace. "You're late."

"Tell me something I don't know," Martha mumbled under her breath. She stepped forward, though, gesturing for her mom to turn around. "Let me." Her mother turned, gratefully, and Martha quickly fixed the clasp.

"You need to work on your time management skills, particularly with interrogations, dear." Elizabeth ran an absent hand over non-existent wrinkles.

Martha sighed, ignoring the statement. "You look beautiful," she assured before stepping around her mother to join Miss Gwen.

"Hurry and get dressed." She'd tried for stern, but the compliment had softened her considerably.

Martha made a noise of affirmation, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready with the assistance of Miss Gwen.

* * *

The house they pulled up to was massive and extravagant. "It's a family home," her father explained, straightening his tie. He always waited until the last second to tie it. Martha had never attended a party with her parents here, and she peered up at the mansion with wide eyes. The Kane's had a beautiful home, but their's was more reasonably sized.

Martha felt this was a justified thought when she stepped into the house, and the butler ushered them into the ballroom. Wayne Manor had a ballroom! Inside, Elizabeth gave her daughter a reproachful look. The room was full, the party already in full swing. Small groupings had already formed consisting of various conversations. Several couples were dancing, too. Martha could tell her mother was disappointed at arriving so late and she offered her an apologetic smile. "Sorry," she mouthed, even though she wasn't too sorry. Philip didn't have to attend the party; she was confident they could have attended without her.

She was saved from having to say anything further when a woman approached them. She was striking; her thick hair was pulled back where it hung loose. She wore a simple, but elegant purple gown. The woman quickly enveloped Elizabeth in a hug, offering the same for Gregory. "Candace; this is my daughter, Martha. Martha, this is Candace Wayne."

Martha was quickly subjected to the same treatment as her parents, and she offered her brightest smile to the hostess. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wayne. You have a lovely home."

The woman waved off her compliment, but her eyes sparkled, pleased. "Thank you, dear. I am so glad you were able to make it. Very nice to meet you, Martha." She smiled, and Martha got the feeling the woman was incredibly genuine. "Elizabeth, I just have to introduce you to some people," and she gestured for Martha's parents to follow her, Elizabeth leaving behind a quiet instruction to mingle and have fun.

Not particularly in the mood for mingling, Martha drifted around the room, eventually ended up at one of the high windows. She glanced outside, appraising the view. Once again her contemplation was interrupted by a warm, male voice. "We have got to stop meeting like this." This time, she recognized the voice.

Martha turned, surprised to find the man from the museum standing beside her once more. She arched a brow at him, lips quirking upward in a smile. "Are you following me now?"

He was smiling. "I was going to ask you the same question. After all, you're the one in my house." She felt her cheeks flushed and wondered if he could see the faint blushing.

"You are Thomas Wayne."

"And you're Martha Kane."

It took her a second to recall that she had only shared her first name with him, but she figured with her being here it wouldn't have taken him long to learn the rest. This time she did smile at him, rather than just giving him a look of faint amusement. "So, you _are_ following me." He was still smiling, responding only with a shrug and she shook her head offering her hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

"Thomas," he insisted, taking her proffered hand.

* * *

Two hours later the two teens were seated on a stone bench outside in the garden. There were others outside, too, talking in pairs and small groups, but Martha paid them no attention. At some point, she had taken her shoes off and now had her feet in the soft grass. "I'm sure you _were_ a nightmare," the assassin chuckled. She was warm, her cheeks flushed pink from sitting outside and the few drinks she'd had. She was surprised to find that she was comfortable sitting with Thomas, and even more surprised to realize she was having a good time.

"Oh, I was," Thomas agreed, shaking his head. "Alfred and I were always causing issues one way or another. There was one time when we were exploring the caves near the edge of the property, and we went missing for a whole day. My dad was furious when he finally found us." Martha laughed.

"I can imagine he was worried."

Thomas shrugged, silent for a moment. "So, are you ever going to share what you found so fascinating outside of the museum this afternoon?" His tone was light, but Martha was immediately on her guard.

She opted for a half-truth, hoping it would be enough to satisfy her curiosity. "I was just killing time," she admitted with a shrug. "I'd already looked around the museum, and I was waiting."

"I've never seen someone look so focused, staring at nothing."

"I was thinking of painting the scene." That was true, too; the thought _had_ crossed her mind.

Thomas' eyes went wide. "You're a painter?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "I paint. Sometimes. For fun. Calling me a painter implies I'm good at it, or it's my occupation or something."

"Just a hobby, then?" Martha nodded. "I'd love to see it if you do end up painting it; see the scene from your eyes."

"I'm not sure I'll ever get around to it, but I doubt I'll see you again to show it to you." It was a simple fact, stated as such. Just as when she'd said something similar at the museum, something flashed in his eyes at her words.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't generally hang around museum windows," she smiled, lightly, "or attend these kinds of parties."

"So? I exist outside of museum windows and parties," Thomas pointed out.

"So," Martha continued, patiently. "I do not see how we are likely to run into one another again."

Thomas ran his hand through his hair, letting out a short breath. "People can see one another without coincidences." Martha blinked at him, not understanding. "If I wanted to see you again, intentionally-"

She cut him off, quick. "Sorry, but no."

"No?" It was his turn to look confused.

"Look," Martha brushed stray hairs from her eyes. "I'm incredibly busy-"

"Too busy for friends?"

"Too busy for friends," she confirmed. "I don't have the time to... I don't know; visit? Not to mention, I may not have recognized your face earlier today, but I have heard of you." She paused as he smirked at her words. Martha's eyes narrowed, "Nothing good, I assure you." The smirk fell. "Always showing up to parties and events with a different girl on your arm. I believe the terms 'rake' and 'womanizer' have been used."

The feeling of camaraderie between them was now gone, replaced with an atmosphere of tension. "You were having fun sitting here with me," Thomas countered. Martha let out a laugh.

"Yeah, I enjoyed myself. It's a party, and you were nice, and I'm grateful for that. I had fun, despite being forced to come." She raised a hand to stop him from interrupting. "_However_," her tone insistent, "it was fun for tonight only. I have no interesting in being added to your already lengthy list of female friends."

"Because you don't have time for friends," Thomas bit out, and she didn't miss the bitterness in his voice.

"Exactly." There was a part of her that felt bad, but she had made it a rule not to grow close to people outside the Brotherhood. She didn't want to deal with all the lying that it would require.

"Pretty presumptuous, don't you think?" Thomas stood, running his hand through his hair again.

"Pardon?"

"You assume that my invitation to see you again has something to do with my apparent status as a playboy-"

"Well-"

This time it was Thomas who held up a staying hand to stop her from speaking. "Who I spend my time with, and for how long, is _my_ business. What right do you have to pass judgment about my life having just met me today? Not to mention you're hardly the caliber of girl I'd invite to have on my arm at a party." His laugh came out harsh, mocking. Martha felt as if he had struck her across the face.

She shoved her feet back into her shoes as Thomas continued. "Your face is plain, your clothes lacking in taste, and the only going thing for you is your last name and the weight it carries."

Martha stood, quickly, face flushed and hot. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. "If that is how you treat someone you wanted to be friends with five seconds ago, you have only solidified my decision to part ways here." She paused, taking a breath. "_You_ were having fun, too. Don't worry; I won't let you waste another second of charity on me, seeing as you can't bear to be seen with me at a party and here we are, attending a party."

She turned on her heel, face twisted in anger and hurt. "Martha, wait." He reached out, grabbing her wrist again and his tone was considerably softer than it had been just a moment ago. She didn't care. Wrenching her arm from his grasp, she hissed, "Don't touch me," and fled back to the party.

Inside, the music from the old radio was playing. Martha could hear talking and laughter in the ballroom, and she could even see the swish of fabric as couples danced across the room. She found an empty hallway, leaning against the wall as hot tears slid down her cheeks. It shouldn't matter what Thomas Wayne thinks of her, seeing as she wanted nothing to do with him; but his words had stung.

Martha stayed in the hallway for another five minutes, wiping away any traces of the hurt and angst before reemerging in the ballroom. She catches sight of Thomas, almost immediately, talking earnestly with another man in the far corner. She heads in the opposite direction, rolling her eyes. She was quickly distracted by a vice-like grip on her arm preventing her from moving forward. "Martha!"

The assassin smiled as she recognized the voice. "MaryAnne," she greeted, steadying the girl who was now teetering by her side.

She hadn't been lying when she said she didn't have time for friends. If she did, though, Martha would consider MaryAnne to be a friend. The young blonde standing at Martha's side was bright, energetic, and friendly. She was also a loyal member of the brotherhood making her someone Martha could be open and honest with.

"I saw your parents," MaryAnne informed her as they hugged, her voice slower than normal. "I was surprised when they said you were here, somewhere. Thought maybe they were pulling my leg when I couldn't find you."

"I was outside for a bit," Martha grinned. "Mom insisted that I come, though I'm not sure why."

MaryAnne rolled her eyes, blue orbs gazing across the room. "Well, duh. How else will you find a husband?"

She nearly choked, and MaryAnne giggled as Martha managed to sputter, "What?"

The other girl looked amused and hardly sympathetic as she patted Martha's back. "Why else would she insist? Honestly, Martha, do you pay attention to anything outside of assignments? She assumes in a few years you'll be getting married and starting your own family. She wants you to-Oh! Isn't he cute?" She was distracted from the conversation and Martha followed her gaze.

Thomas.

She couldn't help but snort disbelieving. MaryAnne looked at her as if she'd grown a second head. "His personality is lacking," she offered, dryly.

"I'm not asking if he has a charming personality." She rolled her eyes, deciding Martha was a lost cause. "Oh, nevermind; I'm going to go introduce myself." With Martha's help, she steadied herself before flouncing off.

Martha watched as MaryAnne approached, confidently introducing herself to Thomas and his companion. As he introduced himself, Thomas' eyes met hers across the room. She glared, watching as he brought MaryAnne's hands to his lips. He smirked, then laughed at something her friend had said. Martha turned away.

The rest of the party was uneventful from her end. She was grateful when her parents found her, both ready to leave. She didn't miss the disappointment in her mother's eyes when they saw her standing alone. She was going to have to address that, eventually.

At home, Martha immediately headed for the stairs but was stayed by her father's hand on her shoulder. "Let's talk about Edward Monger." Tired, with a headache forming, Martha agreed with a reluctant nod.

* * *

Thirty minutes later they were seated in the parlor. Philip looked tired, but he was there, too. Miss Gwen was serving tea. Her brother and parents faced her, expectantly, and she shared what had happened with Edward Monger.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Edward leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "That's quite vague. you're younger than I thought you'd be."

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden subject change. "So are you," she countered, tapping her blade. Monger's eyes followed the impatient gesture.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

He sounded honestly curious, and the question caught Martha off guard. She answered honestly, "Yes."

They were quiet as she let that information sink in. "The Sword of Eden," she reminded him.

He smiled, straightening his posture. "Right. I'm guessing you know about all the other pieces?" When she nodded, he continued. "The first use of the sword was by Perseus when he slew Medusa. Later, a shepherd unearthed a sword and presented it to Attila the Hun. With that sword, Attila ravaged Eurasia. A century later, King Arthur pulled a sword from a stone, naming it Excalibur. With it, he became ruler. All of these are stories that most people believe to be myth and legend, but they happened. Event he stories people believe, Genghis Khan, Jacques de Molay, Jeanne d'Arc; the sword appeared to them at one time or another. The successes of these people can be attributed to the Sword of Eden. What do you know about the other pieces of Eden?"

Martha sighed and recited automatically, "They were left behind by the Isu and are instruments in controlling humanity. Not all of them were about control. I know the sword is more offensive in nature and the shrouds have healing properties."

"You know the shrouds are in possession by the Brotherhood?" Martha shrugged a shoulder. She knew that her ancestors Evie and Henry Greene had protected the shroud, but she wasn't about to confirm that to this stranger.

He seemed to know it, regardless. "The Swords are more than just offensive; they provide the wielder with incredible charisma; having the sword in your hand causes you to be immune to the effects of the staves and the Apples. It can alert you to enemies. It does have an offensive capability with an energy blast, but it is so much more than that." His eyes had lit up, and he had a faraway look in his eye as he described the Swords abilities.

"Do you know where it is?"

He snorted, attention coming back to Martha. "It's rumored to be hidden in Gotham. It should stay hidden, too. Something that magnificent was not meant for mortals. It's dangerous in the right hands, even worse in the wrong hands."

"Why do you know so much about the sword?"

"I never got an answer on why he was so important," Martha lied. She wasn't sure why she was keeping that information from her parents, but something in her gut was telling her to keep the rest of the conversation with Edward a secret, and Martha intended to follow that feeling until she knew more.

"I think we have more questions now than answers," Gregory sighed, swiping a palm down his face. "Alright. Off to bed. It's been a long day, and we'll get nowhere thinking on his now with tired, muddled brains."

Tired as she was, Martha lay awake in bed for several hours, replaying the last of her conversation with Edward Monger.


	4. Edward Monger, Again

Thomas felt terrible as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He could see the hurt on Martha's face, and the guilt ate away at him. He'd felt attacked, and he had struck back without thinking it through; it was a bad habit that his mom was quick to point out would get him in trouble one day.

He had a feeling that the day had come.

It was stupid for him to be so upset by her rejection, but it had stung, and he struggled to understand it. Thomas had experienced rejection before, but he had thought there was a genuine connection with Martha. She was smart, she made him laugh, and he enjoyed her company rather than tolerated it.

He knew that his frustration and lack of understanding was no excuse. It bothered him the rest of the night and was still eating away at him the next morning when he sat at the dining table for breakfast. Thomas was quiet as Gene filled Candace in on the idea of another piece of Eden. She listened and asked questions, but she didn't quite understand how vital the pieces of Eden were. She just knew the Templars were intent on finding them all.

She could also tell something was bothering her son.

After Gene had excused himself from the table, she turned to her son who was busy staring at his toast. "Enjoy the party last night?"

Thomas shrugged. "Yeah, mom. Great party."

Candace frowned. Thomas usually gave her some sarcastic comment; she knew that he didn't have the best time at the events, but he would always comment positively on something.

"Marsha mentioned you spent quite a bit of time sitting out in the gardens with Martha Kane," she trailed off, hoping that Thomas would fill in more of the story. She was no stranger to the fact that her son never seemed to spend more than a second on a girl and wanted to encourage this relationship. The Kane girl came from a respectable family.

He shrugged again. "Yeah, I guess."

Candace frowned and pressed a hand to her son's arm. "Is there something you want to talk about? I know the party may not have been thrilling for you, but you're usually much more engaged in the Templar conversation."

He shrugged again, and she wanted to shake him, but she sensed he was debating about talking to her, so she waited. "I feel guilty."

"About?"

"I may have said something a bit... rude to Martha last night, and I think she might hate me now."

"Did she deserve whatever you said?"

Thomas took a minute to consider the question, replaying the conversation before shaking his head no. "Probably why I feel bad." He flashed his mother a smile, but it didn't last long.

"Maybe you should fix it," preferably before the discontent spread from the daughter to the parents, but Candace wasn't about to mention that to her son. He was, of course, her priority.

"I'm not sure I know how. I don't know Martha very well, and I don't think that an apology alone would be sufficient." He snorted. "Not to mention, I'm one hundred percent certain she doesn't want to see me."

"You'll feel better," Candace encouraged. "Tell her your sorry, and I'm sure you'll find a way for her to see that you mean it." Once more Thomas shrugged, and she really would have to teach him better communication. Still, his demeanor had already brightened. At the very least, he stopped staring at his toast and started to eat it.

By the time Gene reappeared in the dining room and instructed that Thomas come with him for some Templar business, Thomas was more enthusiastic about the subject.

* * *

On the way, Gene filled Thomas in; they were headed to meet with a guy who had more knowledge of the Sword of Eden. He was neither Templar, nor Assassin, but had more information about the pieces of Eden, particularly the sword, then most people have about any one subject. The car stopped outside a nondescript apartment complex. "What kind of name is Edward Monger, anyway?" Thomas commented as they climbed from the vehicle.

Unseen by the teen, Gene rolled his eyes. "Either a fake or the one his parents bestowed upon him. Come on." Gene nudged his son forward. "I'll distract the receptionist; see if you can find the room number." Thomas nodded.

He stepped into the building first, and the receptionist glanced up at him, looking bored. He headed for the stairs just as Gene stepped into the building, slipping right by the door. Looking less bored, the receptionist jumped from her seat and rushed over to him, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay?" Thomas quickly ducked behind the desk to start digging for a list of names.

"This floor is wet! Has no one mopped it?" The poor girl didn't know how to respond, and Thomas almost felt bad for her. "I could sue!" Gene continued.

"Oh, no. Don't do that. My uncle is going to kill me,"

"You! I almost died!"

Meanwhile, Thomas was searching through the files. The apartment complex was a pay by the month rental rather than signing a full lease. There was no Edward Monger in any of the documents, and it was a small building. He did find a 'Gorden M. Warde,' and aside from the odd spelling of Ward, it was the only name that had all of the letters to make the name Edward Monger. Room 318.

He darted from around the desk and headed for the stairs, giving his father a subtle thumbs up before ducking into the stairwell.

Gene joined him a few minutes later. "He's registered as Gorden M. Warde, room 318," Thomas explained as they headed up the stairs. "At first glance, he pays for his apartment three months at a time."

"When is his next payment due?" Thomas shrugged and looked appropriately chagrined when his father peered down at him, eyebrows raised.

"I didn't check."

"Hmm," was all Gene said.

When they arrived on the third floor, Gene was the one who looked out to make sure the hall was empty before they stepped out. Monger's apartment was in the middle of the hallway. They stood, Thomas' ear pressed to the door. When he heard nothing, he shook his head at his dad. They knocked, and there was still no sound from inside.

While Gene stood watch, Thomas knelt and began working the lock. He needed the practice and they weren't in a huge hurry, so it was good a time as any. Just as Gene appeared to grow impatient, the lock clicked open, and Thomas let them into the apartment, shutting it quietly behind them.

He took a quick look around the room. It was sparsely furnished and looked like the furniture that was there came with the apartment. Unknown to Thomas, he reached the same conclusion as Martha; the apartment was more of a safe house than it was any permanent living. His dad disappeared down the short hallway, checking the bathroom and bedroom. "Empty," he said, sounding disappointed.

"Should we wait?"

Gene shook his head. "No, pretty sure he isn't coming back. There aren't any clothes, toiletries, anything that a person might come back for."

"He could travel pretty light?" Thomas suggested.

"No," Gene sighed. "If he's been paying in three-month increments, he would have gotten at least a little comfortable, and he didn't leave in a hurry. Doesn't look like he left anything behind. We'll still take a look around. Either his three months were up, or something had him spooked."

They did take a look around the apartment. All that was left was some leftover Chinese that looked like it was close to starting to mold. Thomas put it back exactly where it was in the kitchen, in case Monger had left his safe house but had no intention of giving it up, yet.

Both Waynes were disappointed as they headed home. They sat in silence; each caught up in their thoughts. Gene was preparing for the meeting he had coming up, detailing his appointment with the curator. Thomas was thinking about Edward Monger and Martha Kane. It was curious that he had just abandoned a place he'd felt comfortable paying three months of rent in advance. One had to wonder where that money came from, too. Thomas was also caught up thinking how he would apologize to Martha.

Ultimately, he decided a letter might do and would prevent him from slipping and saying something dumb before he could think it through.

* * *

Writing apology letters, it turns out, isn't easy. It took him several hours to even get a letter beginning that he was happy with, and even then he didn't finish the letter until after dinner.

After that, well, he felt compelled to deliver the letter in person. He couldn't even say what made him do it, but there he was, his driver dropping him off to the door of the Kane house. Like Wayne Manor, the property was well cared for. It was smaller but still stately. It spoke of home whereas the manor only spoke of wealth. He hesitated before knocking and was surprised when an older, worn looking woman opened the door. "Err," Thomas, for some reason, had expected Martha to open the door.

Of course, nothing with her could be easy.

The old woman stared at him, then raised a brow. He wondered if Martha learned to do it from this lady here. "Can I help you?" She inquired, politely.

Elizabeth saved him from having to answer. He was standing there, fumbling with why he was there so late at night when she approached. She was smiling, gently, but she had her brows furrowed, confused. "Thomas Wayne," she greeted. Old Woman moved aside. "Are you alright?"

Thomas nodded. "Mrs. Wayne," he greeted with a smile, "Sorry to intrude, I was just wondering if Miss Wayne is available?" Knowing Elizabeth made it easy to turn on the charm.

Despite the late hour, Elizabeth smiled, pleased. She gestured for Thomas to come inside and he did so, gratefully, clutching his letter. "Martha isn't home right now, but if you'd like to wait."

The idea of waiting in their parlor for Martha to come home, made him nervous again. He frowned, disappointed, but shook his head. "No, I guess I had better go home."

"Is there something you'd like for me to tell her?" Thomas shook his head, but Elizabeth caught sight of the paper in his hand. "Something you'd like to leave for her," She nodded in the direction of the paper.

He debated saying that the paper was his, but he couldn't think of a plausible reason for coming late at night to visit with her daughter. "Uh, yes." He offered up the letter.

"I'll make sure she gets it," Elizabeth beamed.

"Thanks," Thomas said, stiffly, feeling suddenly awkward. He wasn't sure why he wrote the letter, anyway, he should have just left well enough alone and wrote off the whole thing as a loss.

He continued to feel ridiculous when he didn't hear back from Martha.

That is, until three days after dropping off the letter he came home to find a package in his room. According to the note from his mom, a courier had dropped it off that afternoon. When he opened, he was surprised to find a painting. It was a street scene, with people wandering down the street. There were building, and the artist had painted it so you could tell the view was from above as if looking out a window. It was in all blacks and grays, save for one spot of bright yellow standing out in the crowd.

As he picked up the painting to examine it closer, a small slip of paper fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, seeing unfamiliar handwriting.

_Me, too._ _\- M._

It wasn't a whole lot of response to his letter but coupled with the painting... Thomas smiled.


	5. The Drunken Fox

"Miss Kane," the sharp, mildly irritated, voice of her tutor broke through the young girl's thoughts. She blinked, glancing at Erin with a sheepish expression. The other assassin sighed, shaking her head at Martha. "Penny for your thoughts," she prompted, granting the girl a break from the lessons she was obviously not interested in learning. "Because I know it isn't on your history lesson." Martha made a face and Erin frowned. "You love history!"

Martha shrugged. "I don't _love_ history," she protested, more out of a desire to avoid answering. She'd been thinking about her meeting with Edward Monger again, and the information she'd kept from her parents.

Erin huffed, "More than any other subject." That had Martha grinning.

"Touché."

They were both silent, for a moment before Erin continued pressing. She gave Martha a sly, knowing look, her lips quirked up in a smirk. Martha tensed. "Are you daydreaming about a certain boy...?"

For a minute, Martha panicked. Sure, Erin was an assassin, but no one had been there when she had spoken to Monger. How could Erin know? "W-what?" she stuttered, unconvincingly.

The tutor cackled. "You were! Oh, I knew it. He's a nice boy, Thomas Wayne."

This time Martha's confusion was genuine as her nose scrunched up and she repeated, "What?" She started laughing, holding her stomach as she did so. "You think I'm daydreaming about _Thomas Wayne_?" She wiped a non-existent tear from her eye, still chuckling. "Man, I needed a laugh." Before Erin could continue on this subject, Martha opted for a half-truth hoping to deter any further thoughts on that subject. "Where would you get that idea? I was thinking about the Sword of Eden."

Looking just as disappointed as she'd sounded when she had called out Martha for her distraction, Erin shook her head again, red curls bouncing. "Your mom said he came by with a letter last week." The tutor dropped into a chair, studying her pupil. "Do you ever think about anything other than assassin business?"

Martha snorted, gesturing to her notes. "Sometimes I think about school," she offered the other woman a cheeky grin as Erin rolled her eyes.

"you're young with your whole life ahead of you. You should be thinking about more than school and the life of an assassin before you're older, living with regrets."

"Thinking about things like boys?" Martha asked, doubtfully.

"Yes! Like boys, shopping, any silly frivolous thing. While you're young! You're far too serious all the time."

Sensing a rant, Martha shook her head at her tutor. "I do think about shopping, and things aside from school and being an assassin. Sometimes, I even think about boys." She smiled. "But," here, she paused, trying to find the words to explain. "Thomas is... he's nice to look at, and he _can _be charming. But, he's an ass, and," she continued quickly before Erin could interrupt, "He isn't an assassin."

It was Erin's turn to look baffled. "All boys are asses, but so what if he's not an assassin?"

Rather than explaining all her conflict about associating with people outside of the Brotherhood, Martha sighed and said, "Mary Anne."

The cheerful blonde is a few years older than Martha. Her parents, unlike Martha's who put her into home school when she hit middle school) had kept her in the private school system, where she'd met a boy. At her high school graduation party, he proposed. They were young, but in love (and it's not all unusual for a woman to marry young, anyway). They were engaged for a little under a year. He had no clue what Mary Anne did in her spare time-not that it would have made a difference. She made a mistake, one that led a templar to her fiance and cost him his life. Mary Anne had been devastated by his death. Even now, she attended parties and flirted with handsome men, but it was never without a few drinks in her system, and there was something... broken about it all.

Mary Anne is very good at pretending she is okay, but every now and then the mask slips and Martha can see the pain in her eyes.

Erin's expression softened. "Martha, it doesn't always-that isn't meant to be a cautionary tale against romance and socializing with people outside of the Brotherhood."

Martha raised a brow, "Isn't it?"

"Regardless, no one is saying to date the boy." Martha's brow went even high, and Erin quickly amended, "Okay, no one aside from your mother is saying to date him, but you should have friends who aren't assassins. Who lead normal lives and can, on occasion, give you a sense of normalcy. It would be good for you."

She shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't want to lie, or to be the reason an innocent person ends up hurt." Erin started to respond and Martha, eager to move on from this conversation, glance at the clock. "Break over! I'm ready to focus on history now." Erin looked like she might argue, but ultimately she sighed, and they resumed their lesson.

* * *

That night at dinner, they received the call. Miss Gwen entered the dining room, alerting Gregory to the phone. Excusing himself from the table to answer the phone, Gregory exited the room while the rest of them exchanged looks. When he returned a minute later, he was smiling. "That was Lance," he reported.

Both Martha and Philip paused forks halfway to their mouths. Elizabeth lowered her utensil. Martha had forgotten that Lance had been watching her when she first met Edward Monger. She forgot that there would be a report, that it counted as a test, forgot that they had been waiting for this call. "He was pleased with your work last week," her dad said, finally. His voice was full of pride, and Martha beamed. "Your tail of the mark was, and I'm quoting here, 'flawless' not to mention the information you were able to obtain." He was still smiling, and Martha's pulse quickened.

"He was impressed?" She tried for casual. Gregory nodded.

"He has a special assignment for you." Martha gave her father a sharp look, and he laughed. "Your first solo assassination," he confirmed. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and Philip gave her a firm high five.

"Nice job, little sis." Philip sounded almost as proud as their dad.

"He'll be coming by in a little bit with the details. You can get changed after dinner."

Martha made quick work of her dinner after that, changing into her usual wardrobe for when she was on the job for the brotherhood. The sharp knives were strapped to their holds to her forearms. She strapped another, more heavy knife to her back within easy reach, and pulled on her cloak with the hood that would hide her in the shadows. Pulling on her soft leather boots, the ones that would help to cover her footsteps, Martha added a few throwing knives to the sheaths that had been sewn into the inside. She included a few other tools that would be useful to a small bag that would tie to her waist, and when she was dressed and readied, Martha headed down the stairs. Lance was there, waiting when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Lance was a few years older than her dad. As a kid, she had referred to him as Uncle Lance, and when they were in less formal encounters, she reverted to type. However, in this instance, he was here as her superior. Still, she could hardly contain her excitement, and she was smiling when she shook his heads. "Evening," she greeted.

"Martha," the bald man replied. He was smiling, too. "Fantastic work last week."

The assassin ducked her head, shyly. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, no reason to draw it out much longer. I have your first solo assignment." He reached into his jacket to retrieve the paper that would hold the details, and his hand hesitated. "Are you sure you are ready for this?" His voice was serious, gentle brown eyes staring down at Martha.

Her hesitance wasn't out of a lack of being ready, but rather Martha waited to answer because she wanted to give him an honest answer. She could sense he didn't want a 'right' answer, but the truth.

Martha didn't _enjoy_ killing, but she understood that, sometimes, it was necessary to achieve the greater good. There was a part of her, too, that enjoyed the adrenaline rush that came with any job assigned by the brotherhood. She was ready for this. She was prepared to prove herself to the assassins, to take this next step. "Yes," she breathed, holding her hand out for her assignment.

Lance seemed pleased as he handed over the document. "I'll leave you to it, then." He placed a small, folded piece of paper in the palm of her hand and he turned to go, Gregory seeing him out the door.

She unfolded the document, glancing briefly at the picture before reading the details. An unfamiliar face stared back at her. Anthony O'Donnell Dark eyes, wavy red hair, and a freckled face. The image of the man was frowning, and he had a long scar from his right ear to just above the center of his upper lip. The details listed him as five foot ten, weighing in at 205 pounds. He works security for a club downtown associated with a lot of organized crime.

All in all, not a bad first solo mission.

She didn't realize her dad had been reading over her shoulder until he hummed his approval. "All set?" He asked, and when she glanced up at him, she could see his eyes wrinkled with worry. Martha reached up to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead.

"I'll be alright," she promised. She read over the paper once more and then tossed it in the fire that was already blazing in the fireplace. Then she was headed out the door.

* * *

Getting downtown was easy enough. Finding the club, too, was easy enough. Turns out it wasn't far from the museum where Martha had been stalking Edward Monger the week before. Even finding a spot to watch and wait was easy enough-there was a convenient alley with a fire escape across the street from where she needed to be.

No, the hard part was finding an opening. It turned out that there was either a lot of criminal activity happening at the Drunken Fox that night, or it was a favorite club. She needed to get rid of her target with no witnesses. He needed to vanish.

Maybe she should have paid more attention to his occupation. She could have arrived a lot later. Instead, she was stuck watching this man for several hours as the wind picked up. She wrapped her cloak around her a little tighter, grateful for the warmth. Briefly, she wondered if Lance, or someone else, was watching her right now. They were probably just as bored as she, and the thought made her smile.

As the night wore on, Martha was able to witness O'Donnell throw a few different people out of the building. Quite a few of them he had tossed over his shoulder like they weighed nothing at all, dropping the drunken sucker onto the pavement outside. A few of these people got an extra kick to the ribs for the trouble, and Martha winced, sympathetically. Aside from the occasional tossing of patrons, Martha's watch passed by uneventfully. She had to find new ways to prevent from nodding off.

Eventually, though, the bar closed and O'Donnell began his trek home. "Finally," she breathed, stretching out her stiff limbs. He crossed the street in her direction, and she climbed the rest of the way to the roof of the low building, following along. He paused, only once. Martha held her breath and leaned back into the shadows, but he never glanced in her direction. She made her move as he reached the intersection for the next street.

In a practiced move, she dropped from the roof, landing on O'Donnell's back. It should have been a perfect execution. Unfortunately, sitting still in the cold for the past several hours meant that she wasn't quite warmed up. Her drop was awkward and stilted. Despite having the weapon ready in her hand, she was scrambling not to lose her hold on the large man.

The delay in getting the tip of her knife into his neck was all he needed. With an annoyed sounding grunt, O'Donnell reached up, pulling her by her hood and throwing Martha to the ground. She rolled into impact, coming up on her feet coming face to face with her target.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to have strapped anything to her back. She could already feel the bruise forming from rolling over the metal.

She didn't have time to be concerned with that, though, because O'Donnell was charging at her. He was quick, despite his size, and Martha just barely managed to dodge out the way. She circled him, and O'Donnell eyed her, angrily. When Martha next lunged forward, he swung his fist catching her in the side. The force of the impact had her, once more, flying through the air and this time she had to pick herself up from the ground.

There was a sharp pain when she breathed in, but she didn't get a moment to assess the damage because no sooner was she standing, than large hands were grabbing her by her cloak and lifting her feet from the ground. As he pulled her up, Martha hit the release on one of the small knives she kept strapped to her forearms and shoved it forward into his neck. O'Donnell's eyes went wide and his arms dropped. Before he hit the ground, she'd pried her clothes free from his grip, and a moment later he was lying on the ground, wide eyes staring at nothing.

The whole thing was over quickly, but it had taken longer than it should have. Martha glanced around and seeing no one, she was quick to make her exit. The pain in her side subsided as she headed home, hopefully indicating that there were no broken ribs. By the time she walked through her front door, it was a muted throb every time she breathed in.

Her parents and Phillip were still asleep when she shut the door behind her. She was tired and more than annoyed at herself for having fouled up. Overall, though, it had been a success. At the very least, she'd managed to get her target. It was with that somewhat comforting thought that Martha changed and dragged herself into bed, leaving her assassin wear and weapons on the floor.


End file.
